


yield

by cosmicbees



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Keith (Voltron), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Keith gets the upper hand on Shiro. He has to get a hand on himself.Only then does Keith realize how close he and Shiro are, with their faces mere inches apart where Keith hovers above him. Like this, Keith can see the way that Shiro’s lashes rest inky black against his cheeks, flushed scarlet from exertion. Can see the way that Shiro’s few freckles scatter across the bridge of his nose. Can feel Shiro’s pulse hammering beneath his thumbs, and the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest beneath where Keith is straddled across the broad expanse of it, legs spread impossibly wide.





	yield

**Author's Note:**

> This is deeply, wholeheartedly, and lovingly inspired by [@kxith's lovely artwork on twitter](https://twitter.com/kxith/status/1057607650349699073?s=21)

_WHUMP_

Shiro goes down hard, falling flat on his back against the training mats. He huffs out a breath at the impact, blinks once at the ceiling, and Keith nearly hesitates in his next movement, as shocked as he is. Shiro’s eyes shoot towards him, and Keith scrambles back into action, surging forward to grab at Shiro’s arms before they can fly up to block him, and throwing a leg across Shiro’s chest.

“Holy shit,” a little laugh bubbles out of Keith, giddy and unbridled when it spills from his throat, and he stretches Shiro’s arms above his head to press his hands into the dense foam mats, “gotcha.”

“Good job, Keith,” Shiro murmurs, smiling up at him, and the softness of his voice, as breathless as it is, settles something warm in Keith’s gut. There’s a moment of silence, and Keith allows himself to relax briefly, before Shiro pushes up against where Keith’s fingers are wrapped around his wrists.

Keith hisses in frustration, tightening his grip and leaning forward to place more of his weight against Shiro, “yield.”

“Sorry,” the way that the words leave Shiro’s lips make Keith think that he is anything but, although he does relax beneath Keith’s fingers, leaning his head back against the mat again, and letting his eyes flutter closed.

Only then does Keith realize how _close_ he and Shiro are, with their faces mere inches apart where Keith hovers above him. Like this, Keith can see the way that Shiro’s lashes rest inky black against his cheeks, flushed scarlet from exertion. Can see the way that Shiro’s few freckles scatter across the bridge of his nose. Can _feel_ Shiro’s pulse hammering beneath his thumbs, and the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest beneath where Keith is straddled across the broad expanse of it, legs spread impossibly wide.

The dull ache that settles into his hips is the sweet kind of pain that digs its way into his very core when Shiro wriggles a bit beneath him. Keith shocks back at that, trying to push aside the heat that spikes in his stomach at the little brush of friction, and clutches his hands to his chest as though he’s been burned.

Shiro’s eyes snap open at the sudden movement and Keith blinks at him apologetically before something flashes across the other man's face. In a blur of motion and light, Shiro manages to topple Keith over, pressing in until he’s laid out beneath him. Keith shoves at Shiro’s chest, but he is too big, too strong for it to have the desired effect.

Shiro swipes at Keith’s hands and pins them above his head, “gotcha,” he says with sly grin, “shouldn’t have let your guard down.”

“Let me go!” Keith tries to break free, but even with just one hand trapping both of his own, Shiro has got an advantage--cold metal, and brute, mechanical strength

“Come on, Keith,” Shiro sprawls his free hand, the flesh one, across Keith’s chest, using it as leverage when he leans in close. It’s the brush of Shiro’s lips across his ear, and the low, warning tone he speaks in that forces Keith to freeze, a bolt of lightning striking through him, “ _yield._ ”

 

*****

 

Yield

_Yield_

                    **Yield**

_Yield_

           Yield

**_________ Yield_ **

Yield

Keith rolls onto his side, breath catching behind his teeth at the brush of his sweatpants against his cock, already achingly hard at the memory of Shiro’s body beneath his own. He presses his face into his pillow and lets out a low groan, trying to push aside the though, and hopes, instead, for sleep to take him. He squeezes his eyes shut, tight.

A tuft of white hair, a look of surprise, and the memory of a puff of warm breath against his face flash behind his eyelids.

_Yield_

Keith sighs, discontent, and rolls flat onto his back again, with his hands folded across his chest. His fingers itch where they’re intertwined, and not even the chill of the room can ward off the heat that festers at the base of his spine, moving sluggishly through his veins until he is warm all over, agitated by need and want in equal parts. 

He finally lets one of his hands trail down until it rests low on his stomach, and brushes his thumb through the coarse hair there thoughtfully.

One touch won’t hurt.

He wraps the same hand around his length, and the brush of his palm alone is enough to make him shudder. Shoving his shame to the wayside, he presses his thumb against the head, slick where a bead of pre-come has gathered, and bites back a sharp gasp at the pressure.

 _Good job, Keith_. Shiro’s voice, breathy and low, echoes through his head and Keith finally lets his hand move, pulling one long, languid stroke that, despite the relief that comes with the touch, isn’t going to be nearly enough. He has lube somewhere, cast aside in the drawer of his nightstand, but the rough drag of his fingers, skin on skin, bordering on almost too rough is good enough for now.

Perfect, in fact.

He moves his hand slowly, slowly, just enough to take the edge off of the desire coursing through his veins, and tries desperately to scrub the memory of Shiro sprawled out beneath him, eyes wide, mouth parted, and--

Keith squeezes the base of his cock, just hard enough to pull him from his thoughts, letting out a little gasp as his back arches from the sensation. He flicks his wrist a bit, twisting his hand on the upstroke, and _yes_ , that’s it.

It’s good, so good, but he needs more.

He slips his hand into the bedside table, groping around blindly until his hand finds purchase on a little bottle. Keith holds it up to the dim light filtering in from where the bathroom door is cracked open, and considers his options. It’s almost empty, but there is just enough for what he needs, and he flips the cap open with a satisfying little _pop._

Propping himself up on his pillow, Keith stretches out on his side, and gives his dick another quick stroke with his left hand, before coating the fingers of his right in lube. He’s careless, and messy, and there’s undoubtedly too much where it drips down his wrist, but it allows him to slip a finger in with little resistance. The angle is awkward, and his shoulder aches, but he’s able to brush the discomfort aside when he presses a second finger in a moment later.

This would be easier with help, he knows, and tries to pretend that it is Shiro’s fingers that are stretching him open, twisting inside of him with skillful precision as he pulls him apart with the other hand. Maybe he’d use his Galra arm to--

The burn is sweet, bordering on this side of too much, when he pushes a third finger in.

His other arm is half trapped beneath the weight of his body, but he’s still able to wrap his left hand around his dick again, savoring the short, aborted strokes he’s able to eke out.

With his leg hitched to allow himself better access, Keith turns his face to huff out little moans, burying them into the pillow beneath his head. He wonders if Shiro would fuck like this, holding Keith’s leg up while he spooned into Keith, murmuring against his ear in short sentences that would match the shallow movement of his thrusts.

Maybe, Keith thinks, he’d let Keith lay him out, back against the mattress like the training room earlier. Maybe he would let Keith ride him like that. With his hands braced against Shiro’s hips, until Keith’s thighs burned from exertion, and he couldn’t hardly move anymore. Until he was shaking from the effort of fucking himself on Shiro’s cock while Shiro watched, hands behind his head.

_Good job, Keith._

Or, _god_ , maybe Shiro would take pity on him after he got tired. Maybe he would turn Keith on to his back like he did that afternoon, pull Keith’s legs over his shoulders, and fuck him until he cried from overstimulation. Shiro might put his hand across Keith’s chest again, press down like he did on the mats, and tell Keith to “ _yield._ ”

Keith comes then with a muffled cry, spilling hot and messy across his hand, and lets his fingers still where they are still buried three-deep inside of him.

_Good job, Keith._

He shoves the shame that rises in his throat down before he can let it overtake him.

He demands of it, "yield."

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a penis i apologize for any inaccuracy 
> 
> come visit me on [tumblr](http://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) if you feel so inclined.


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